‘Sorta Surviving’ Will Get You Through

Sometimes music doesn’t weigh a thing.

That was the Grateful Dead’s secret, right? That’s why it never mattered if these jam giants stumbled haplessly through a set. The music never weighed a thing, and everyone onstage and off was just happy to be involved. The music didn’t have to tackle anything explicitly heavy or existential. It just put your concerns on hold for a few hours.

Tim Bluhm’s Sorta Surviving inhabits the same weightless territory. It’s gentle, low-stakes music that’s almost, almost country: think honky-tonk with the sharp edges smoothed by jamband grooves. It’s not perfect, but it’s an easy, pleasant listen — not an entrée, but an aperitif. And that’s OK.

“It was Davie and Goliath in the Robinson yard / the entire school was gathered in the round,” Bluhm sings in “Jimmy West.” “John swung and missed Jimmy / Jimmy got a left in / when he broke John’s nose, the whole world heard the sound / we knew Jimmy’d won when the bully hit the ground.” The song lopes along, pairing a familiar schoolyard fight narrative with a singalong-friendly chorus. Accessibility and catchiness are kind of the point here.

Sorta Surviving was recorded in the Cash Cabin in Hendersonville, Tennessee, and produced by Dave Schools of jam giants Widespread Panic. The results naturally plumb country and jam’s common properties — notably a light, palate-cleansing form of songcraft. The Man in Black Himself, after all, was more than just the gravel-and-gravity statesman of the American recordings, but also the goof who popularized “One Piece at a Time.” Lightness also comes in the form of familiar modern folktales about, say, the Dust Bowl or, yes, a locally legendary schoolyard brawl. Lightness, too, can mean a groovy, well-composed cover, such as Bluhm’s take of the Everly Brothers’ “Del Rio Dan.” The only tune on Sorta Surviving that simply doesn’t work is his cover of “I Still Miss Someone.” Besides the on-the-nose move of recording a Cash cover in the Cash Cabin (come on, man … ), there’s a surprising absence of spirit to the Bluhm version. The recording sounds like either good karaoke or a lackluster cover band.

But then there’s “Squeaky Wheel,” a rollicking, road-tested number that presents Bluhm on the road — enjoying himself, sure, but also lonely and ready to be home. Yet it cascades along, driven by rolling banjos and propulsive percussion, transforming melancholy into shared joy. Life weighs enough. Music doesn’t always have to.